


A Kind of Magic

by chantefable, Owl_Postmaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Christmas Party, Crups (Harry Potter), Future Fic, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_Postmaster/pseuds/Owl_Postmaster
Summary: Winter has come. Also, the future.





	A Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).



> Errol the owl has listened very carefully, and snagged you something along the way! He is a little frail and hard of hearing these days, so things like Harry being the Minister of Magic and Draco living in the Muggle world blurred together in an experimental wintry wonderland… Happy holidays!

_There is no city in the world which does not feel, whether for good or for ill, the weight of its past._

_Franco Cardini_

Winter came in a rictus of rage, with chilling sleet cutting into skin at a slant and furls of grey smog settling in every nook. Human faces gained a blueish tinge of cold and desolation, with angry blotches of red blooming across the skin under the influence of strong spirits, spicy food, and incessant shopping.

In some ways, the worst of it was already over – the budget of the following year was already adopted, with a string of directives shuffled in on its heels in a shameless yet entirely predictable manner; the provisional expenditure reviews were approved for all the departments, and there was nothing left but sloppy wrap-up of projects to be finished by the end of the year. The Muggle Liaison Office was furiously buying iPhones in bulk for 'comparative experimental performance analysis' with the latest Weasleyphone, because Merlin forbid someone had to actually sit down and fill in all the forms to transfer the leftover department funding into the next year. That was like putting coal in one's own Christmas stocking: everybody knew it would only lead to one's budget allocations being cut in the future.

One could say what one wanted about the Ministry of Magic, but it was not, in fact, run by idiots.

This was a fact that Harry Potter was thoroughly familiar with. Yet a different set of facts, layered and complex and not terribly conducive to a good night's sleep, had helped him form a number of opinions on the aforementioned Ministry. The most important one being that it should not be run by him.

Anymore.

Fiddling with the cuff-links on his traditional formal tunic, Harry hummed along to the holiday hit of the year, a soulful collaboration between the Scamander twins and Ed Sheeran – something with a long and introspective title that Harry could never recall no matter how often it was announced on WWN's Top Ten. The cuff-links complemented the off-white, densely embroidered tunic in a way that Harry personally thought was very dashing; he was well aware that this probably meant it was either five or thirty years out of fashion, but he was not particularly concerned. The cuff-links were old silver with the Black family crest, sturdy and polished to perfection by Kreacher himself. The tunic and the narrow trousers had also been approved by Kreacher as not being too disgraceful for a man of his status.

Really, now that Harry had recognised the fact that Kreacher ran the household and was in charge of all the management and decision-making, they got along just fine. An unexpected bonus of becoming a career politician: Harry realised that he was neither the legislative nor the executive power in his house, and was purely population with representative functions. Adjusting his behaviour accordingly had had a positively rejuvenating effect on the old house-elf, who was as spry and vicious as ever – probably because he had bullied Harry into employing a whole staff of unionised elves over the past two decades, and delighted in bossing them around.

Finally, Harry tugged on his boots – proper Auror uniform boots, which were practical, comfortable and also sent all the PR-approved, subtle signals when it came to his image – and perfunctorily ran a comb through his hair. It was as thick and messy as ever, though now liberally peppered with grey, and overall looked nicer than his face, with crow's feet and a frown line between his brows, throwing a distinct shadow at the right angle. Apparently, Harry just could not live without something attention-grabbing on his forehead.

He went downstairs and out through the door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. A minute later, an invisible carriage driven by an invisible Thestral was already taking Mr Harry Potter, former Minister for Magic, to the little pet charity gala where everyone who was anyone was about to mingle, strictly as private citizens.

It was a testimony to how long Harry had actually spent in politics that he was looking forward to tonight as something fun.

Merry bloody Christmas.

His invisible taxi sped him through the crowded London streets, awash with a mix of neon colours and a bright haze of spell residue. The lines between magic and Muggle were blurred just like the seasons, global warming turning winter into something far more indistinctly grey and gloomy than the crisp white cold of Harry's childhood. The Thames was only partially frozen, the water sighing heavily, braced by slabs of ice at the sides; the river surface glimmered, dark and slick, as Harry watched it from the window and thought about skimming stones. 

They had done that sometimes with the children, at Bill and Fleur's cottage. He remembered teaching it to Teddy, and probably Dominique. But not to James, or Albus, or Lily; no, his own children had only ambushed him after they had learned all about angle and rotation, and left their father positively _destroyed_ by defeat. Impeccable strategy. There was fondness and pride meshed into the memory, and a queer bitterness, a fleeting sense of failure despite having raised them the way he had learned to believe would be the best. Futile, illogical regrets; his children were all adults now. It was all water under the bridge.

The air was damp and Harry's mood was apparently going the same route. Also, it was indeed far too chilly and Harry regretted foregoing a proper knee-length jacket or a robe just because he had thought it would be far too formal for the event. An extra layer of warmth would have been nice.

Then, of course, Harry remembered that he was a fucking wizard and cast a Warming Charm.

Every time. This still happened _every time_.

***

_It is immoral in a man to believe more than he can spontaneously receive as being congenial to his mental and moral nature._

_John Henry Newman_

“Have you seen Malfoy? I could swear the bloke is getting balder by the day, and yet his forehead does not look bigger.” Ron shook his head ruefully, Levitating a flute of Elderflower wine from the tray of the waiter squeezing past them. Hermione hid her smile behind the enormous Weasleypad she had just pulled out of her tiny purse, ostensibly to check the logistics progress of getting Indonesian Justices to the international Wizengamot conference coming up right after the New Year.

Ron himself had started rapidly losing hair as soon as he had turned forty, unlike Bill or George – much to his chagrin and bafflement – and so he had simply shaved it all off for the sake of practicality. He did grow a proper wizard beard to compensate, ridiculously thick and ginger, so today, with his shiny scalp, twinkling half-moon glasses and over-groomed viking-style facial hair, Ron looked rather like a perfect casting choice for a ridiculous action blockbuster biopic about Albus Dumbledore. 

“It's probably bronzer, like that contouring thing.” Harry was scanning the crowd for MP Patil. “You know, like what Pansy Parkinson posted last week on her vlog.”

“I'm surprised you follow such things, Harry.” Hermione's face was still obscured, but both her enormous fluffy hairstyle and the tip of her quill digging into the Weasleypad radiated amusement.

“I, too, have a child who is passionate about make-up,” Harry shrugged primly and then zeroed in on Goldstein, talking to someone partially obscured by a potted palm tree. Bingo.

Ron's amazement was palpable. “Pansy Parkinson has a vlog?” 

Excusing himself with a curt nod, Harry left his friends and navigated through the crowd. The building was fairly dilapidated, clouds of dust lingering in the air despite all kinds of attempts at clean-up. Bare walls and cement floors were off-set by shabby but gilded sofas and huge, spindly metal things re-purposed into lighting fixtures that burst out of the walls. The interior design was a queer mix of cutting edge Muggle post-modern post-industrialist something-something and the whole 'radical pureblood struggling post-Voldemort dictatorship' aesthetic. 

With the scent of construction materials and expensive perfume in the air, politicians, Ministry workers, and affluent lackadaisical socialites mingled with a handful of actual animal rights activists and harried NGO employees. The hall was packed, but Harry cut through the crowd like knife going through butter, propelled by the force of experience; a few half-smiles here and there, a handshake with the older Greengrass, and studious avoidance of Wood's donors, thanks to whom Harry's latest bill fell through.

Oliver's populism was atrocious. And yes, Harry meant it without a shred of irony.

He was within hearing distance from the coveted potted palm tree when the music started – not the Scamander twins but a band Lily liked – some girl she had been in Hogwarts with and her two Muggle sisters. Harry smoothly drew to a halt next to Penelope Clearwater, and exchanged meaningless pleasantries while positioning himself at the right elbow of the current Minister for Magic: a good view for anyone present, a good angle for any papparazzi drone camera hovering under an invisibility kerchief.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a green sari disappear in the crowd and suppressed a sigh of disappointment. He really hoped to catch Parvati tonight; the only member of the magical community currently elected in the House of Commons, she was notoriously elusive. It was most curious what Goldstein had wanted her ear for. Anthony did support Harry's last proposal officially, but it was plain as day that the way his department had drafted their suggestions had done nothing but back Oliver's cause.

And now Anthony was up to something.

Casually brushing past him, Harry shook hands with Goldstein and his current conversation partner – some witch from the Obliviators whose name Harry always forgot – and then launched into an enthusiastic diatribe on animal welfare just because Goldstein looked like he would like to be rid of him sooner. 

Sometimes, it was just exhilarating to hold a grudge.

Harry could have easily kept it up for another thirty minutes: animal charities were a favourite for a reason. One could hardly find something controversial about animal rights these days, and though some opportunities for foot-into-mouth situations presented themselves, it wasn't like anyone argued that Bugbears didn't have feelings or questioned Aethonan sentience. Harry had really warmed up to the topic and was pitching his voice to carry as he bemoaned the fact that they still hadn't eradicated rabies in this day and age when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and was almost sorry to wrap it up.

Abandoning the visibly relieved Goldstein under the palm tree, Harry tried to make his way out of the hall and into some quiet spot. He shook more hands and patted more shoulders on the way, congratulated the organisers – just as splendid as the anniversary of the global eradication of rinderpest, just as well-attended, but so intimate and what great catering – and then slipped out, leaving the two hundred people behind.

The corridor felt freezing after the full hall, lifting the haze of alcohol vapours as Harry swiped his Weasleyphone to check the message from his daughter on WizFam app. It was a photo of her and Hugo on the London Eye, wearing matching neon yellow eyeshadow and obviously enjoying the holiday spirit. Ambling down the corridor, he tapped her a note about looking fabulous before something caught his attention. 

A door was gaping half-open and a familiar voice carried through.

Peeking in, Harry found himself in a room much smaller than the one reserved for the main reception, but still packed with people.

It was a little more liberally decorated with glowing garlands that distracted from the grim minimalism of the walls and the wide windows gazing into the dark, and a bizarre energy pulsed through the throng. Up on the small dais, Malfoy, dressed in something reassuringly navy and respectable, but with a youthfully deep neckline, was delivering an impassioned speech on the vital importance of - 

\- dog vaccination.

He was earnest and convincing on the subject of responsible pet ownership and keeping pet and stray dogs separate – most importantly, he was brief – and then moved on to what felt like yet another one in a string of sponsorship auctions, with patrons competing to get their hands on a little Crup puppy sporting a ribbon 'I was vaccinated' as big as its head. Behind Malfoy's back, the plastic banner announcing that the proceeds would go towards accessible veterinarian services in London dog shelters was looking only a little limp, and Malfoy conducted the auction with the loud assurance of a professional.

Paddles with numbers were shooting up in the air.

Harry slowly inched towards a nice-looking quiet spot in the corner - “he would not understand why he needed to be put down” - “never abandon” - “never turn your back on him” - “he is vaccinated and going to a safe home, and your donations are going to keep more London dogs safe from rabies” - finally settling with his back against the cool, rough concrete. The room had good lighting, the lot spot clearly visible: an assistant vacated it just now as Malfoy gave some statistics on Muggles vs wizards vaccinating their dogs. 

That was, indeed, a lot of bronzer, but Malfoy was making it work.

“It's not much, but it is for a good cause.” Harry blinked and turned his head to the side. Scorpius was leaning next to him with his usual tight-lipped grin. As usual, a whole monologue was hidden in a trite phrase.

Harry simply shrugged. “You've done better.” Which was true, Scorpius was a fucking treasure, and the sole reason Harry had been re-elected for his last term. But Harry could see the whole thing for what it was, Scorpius arranging some good PR for his father. Animal charities _were_ the best, after all. 

He watched the sharp edge of Scorpius' grin grow even sharper, acknowledging the compliment in what most others would have – rightly – seen as rudeness. But Harry had grown used to being blunt and frank with Scorpius, who had managed everything from his campaigns to his press conferences, and did a far better job of covering up Harry's messes and having him keep up with the times than anyone ever could. Scorpius had thought Harry was mad to step down before the end of the term, and then gritted his teeth and found a spin that made Harry gain further political capital even as he was quitting his job. 

Fairy lights glimmered overhead, and Harry saw the event the way it was meant, privately: a gift from a son to a father, all of Scorpius' expertise showing Draco to his best advantage in a subtle yet foolproof way. A little Christmas miracle.

The crowd erupted into applause as a new Crup puppy was brought in; Malfoy scooped it up and showed it off with the air of someone who actually handled dogs on a daily basis.

“Grandmother gave away a whole dozen. They're all show-grade, and really well-behaved. Will you be be bidding?” Scorpius was offering him a numbered paddle, deftly pulled out seemingly out of nowhere.

“I'd rather make a direct donation. Assuming you accept those?” 

“Obviously. Do you have any idea how much it costs to _convince_ people to vaccinate their pets? If all that money could've been channelled into shelters and care for stray dogs, the rabies issue wouldn't have been so topical. They can use all the Galleons we can get.” Some genuine fondness seeped into Scorpius' smile. “Dad's really into it.”

“So I see. He looks quite well.”

Scorpius edged even closer to whisper, “I asked Hugo to do his make-up.” 

Harry whispered back, likewise without moving his lips, “His nose isn't even pointy like this. It's like _magic_.”

***

_True piety is acting what one knows._

_Matthew Arnold_

Harry was poking at his Weasleyphone, finalising the charity bank transfer that Scorpius had already filled in all the details to on his account. The dampness and the cold sent a shudder down his spine as he waited for his Thestral transport to materialise.

A creak of the door announced someone else stepping out on the porch, and a moment later, a Warming Charm enveloped him in a semblance of a warm hug.

“Every time,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“Honestly,” Malfoy drawled with unrestrained mirth, “you're a _wizard_.”

“You know what they say: he who can, does, he who can't… implements magical legislation.”

“I cannot believe I am saying this, but modesty does not suit you.” Malfoy himself had donned a black cloak over his navy ensemble, and was looking rather pink-cheeked, either from the Elderflower wine or from juggling puppies all night long. “I noticed you didn't adopt anyone. No empty nest syndrome?”

Harry shrugged. “I have a house full of staff. I would have to find out if any of the elves were allergic before I brought one home, to be honest. But the one with the brown spot on his head was cute.”

“Menace? Oh, he was a troublemaker _from the womb_. A horrible influence on the entire litter. But he did fetch a pretty penny.”

“The way you talked him up, no wonder.” Harry put away his phone and turned to face Malfoy properly. Up close, he could tell the man was tired, even in the dark, but his eyes had a gleam of satisfaction.

A gust of wind sent a spatter of wet snowflakes straight into their faces, and Malfoy rubbed his nose in distaste.

“Now you've smudged it.”

Malfoy looked aghast for a second, then shrugged. “This nose has done its duty for dog welfare; it can go away for all I care.”

Harry hummed. “You have been involved with this for a long while, haven't you? I remember your foundation being in the working group for the Care of the Magical Creatures Act seven years ago, right?”

“That was Mother,” Malfoy deflected. Harry was naturally unconvinced.

Animal rights _were_ the safer option, and Malfoy could have milked it for all it was worth, but he wasn't terribly visible, not really. And his son was the golden boy of British PR relations; sure, Harry had snagged Scorpius the moment Daphne introduced him to her nephew, but it wasn't like it had ever been an exclusive deal – Scorpius had other clients, in the Muggle and wizarding world alike. He could have easily turned his father into a proper celebrity any time. The man literally rescued homeless puppies.

Perhaps Malfoy just wasn't in it for those kinds of reasons.

It didn't look like something he did to while away the time getting over his divorce. At least, not now.

“I know what you are thinking, Potter, and no. Unless you say you are in politics only because you were bored when you divorced.”

“I absolutely am. Off the record,” Harry beamed, enjoying Malfoy's scoff and the little frisson of excitement the not-quite-flirting brought. Or perhaps it was simply the Warming Charm wearing off.

“That's my ride,” said Harry, gesturing at the empty street. Well, he and Malfoy could both see the Thestral, but the Muggle CCTV cameras would have shown a perfectly empty street even if they hadn't been Charmed to look the other way tonight. “Need a lift?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and then, when Harry didn't laugh it off, seemed to consider. In the end, he nodded, and they quietly climbed into the carriage – each using a door on a different side, no awkwardness, protocol or etiquette getting in the way. Idly, Harry supposed it would be easier to date now that he was not Minister. 

They sat silently for a moment, Malfoy looking through the window as the slush turned to ice, Harry looking at the dog hair clinging to Malfoy's clothes, wondering if that was enough to trigger an allergy.

“Where to?” He finally asked, and Malfoy turned to him, once again looking faintly incredulous.

“Honestly, Potter, at this point I just want to go to bed. To sleep,” he felt bound to clarify, and now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. 

He fiddled with his cuff-links rather than look at Malfoy then. “You know, I have a lot of bedrooms. And you might want to have supper before going to bed. To sleep.”

Malfoy actually leaned in to catch his eye. “Is that what you were whispering about with my son tonight? Seriously?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well, you should! I am not about to ruin my child's hard work on a whim. Do you have any idea how many hours that boy puts into making you look good?”

“Yes, I do. In fact, he bills me for them. Do you want supper or not, Malfoy?”

“Fine.” Malfoy settled back against the cushions and pulled out his Weasleyphone, presumably to write a message to Narcissa.

“Fine!” Harry snapped back, and kept reining in his grin all the way back to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

Thin ice snapped under the wheels occasionally, and cold air crept in through the cracks, but somehow, Harry was feeling lighter and warmer by the minute.

Merry bloody Christmas, Harry Potter.

*


End file.
